I used to believe I was something special. A rare blend of sweetness and effort—lovingly made, sealed tight, and labeled with care. I wasn’t just any jar on the shelf; I was the one he said he
couldn’t wait to enjoy… later.
So I sat there. Tucked gently into the back of the cabinet. “Just for now,” he said. “When things settle down,” he promised.
At first, I believed him. Every time the cabinet opened and he reached in, my hopes rattled like the lid loosening. But he always chose something else—quick snacks, instant gratification, flashy
packaging with less substance. I stayed behind the ketchup and convenience, shelf-shifting to make room for what he craved in the moment.
Time passed. My label started to curl. My contents, once vibrant, began to settle in layers—still good, still whole, just… waiting. Still hoping he’d remember what he put away.
And maybe he did remember. Just not enough.
Eventually, the light stopped reaching me. The door stayed closed. Life kept going. Not mine—his.
But one day, the cabinet opened. Not by him, but by someone else. Someone who wasn’t looking for fast or flashy. They saw my shape, dusted me off, turned me gently in their hands like I was
something worth discovering.
They didn’t ask how long I’d been sitting there. They just saw what was still good inside.
And just like that, I wasn’t waiting anymore.
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To anyone who’s been shelved and shadowed—you’re not expired. You were just waiting for someone who knew how to value something
homemade.
Until next time,
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